


the rest of the world was in black and white but we were in screaming color

by rosesandcinnamon



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: F/F, I RETURN WITH SAD YURIS, Modern AU, Post-breakup, wow i dont even know what this is, writer Historia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:17:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesandcinnamon/pseuds/rosesandcinnamon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Historia and Ymir's relationship had always been a rainbow of colors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the rest of the world was in black and white but we were in screaming color

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Taylor Swift's Out Of The Woods. You should REALLY listen to it while you read this.  
> I'm using a different style here, please let me know if you like it!!  
> Also, I changed the tense last minute at 2am, so please ignore any mistakes.

I remember her in the red my face was when she asked me out. I remember her in the red my formal dress was.

Red is still the Taylor Swift song that makes me cry when it comes on.

A lot of Taylor Swift songs make me cry, if I’m being honest.

I remember her in the pink that dusted her cheeks every single time she saw me in that dress. I remember her in the hot pink my nails were painted when I slid my fingers in between hers.

I still have that nail polish.

I can’t bear to throw it away.

I can’t bear to use it again.

I remember her in the incredible orangey-goldish-brown of her eyes, a color I had never seen before and haven’t seen since. I remember glancing at her when she was looking at me, and the love in her face took my breath away.

I remember the cold wall in those eyes when it was over.

I had only seen that frozen look once before, and that was when she was about to rip some asshole apart for harassing me.

Cinnamon is nothing but her to me. Color, scent, taste- it’s always been her.

I remember her in the color of my hair.

For months, I wanted to dye it something wild, because when I saw its yellow, all I saw was my hair spread out on the pillowcase, the tips brushing her forehead, morning sunlight so gold the strands looked unreal in its light.

She laughed and kissed me, saying “Good morning, Rapunzel.”

The sundress I wore on several of our favorite dates was yellow. I miss her long legs and the contrast between dark skin peppered with freckles and neon yellow shorts.

I remember her in the coverlet on our bed, a gorgeous spring green. In the coldest winter nights, the two of us underneath it was the perfect warmth, until we had to get up and face reality. I miss lying on it with her, building pillow forts with it as the roof, pulling it off the bed and sleeping on the couch with her when she fell asleep there.

I even miss half-asleep shoving and kicking each other for more of it.

I remember her in the light blue blanket on my bed. It’s softer than anything I can think of, and she gave it to me for my birthday. She brought me a bag a few days before, eyes lit up, practically wiggling beside me as I opened it.

The affection on her face as I felt the fabric was better than the blanket itself.

It smelled like her for months, and I can’t stand the thought of putting it anywhere other than my bed.

Blue was the sky we stared up into on summer dates, hands clasped in between us.

Blue was the color of my crop top she took and wore, quite happily. That shirt is buried at the bottom of my closet, because it looked so incredible on her I can barely look at it.

The blue of my eyes deadened after our breakup, shadows underneath them contributing to the effect. The life in my eyes had come with time around her, and I had forgotten how much I hated my dead eyes.

The scarf I wore to cover the marks on my neck was purple.

One night, we went up to the roof of our building and watched the sunset.

I don’t know what was in the air that day or however sunset colors are made, but the multitude of purples painted across the sky was as breathtaking as my girlfriend next to me. We stayed awake that night, blanket wrapped around us, until the sun rose and we saw its dusky roses and oranges and lavenders.

It was the most beautiful night of my life.

My absolute favorite date we ever went on was early in our relationship, and early in spring.

We wandered around a park, idly talking about school and our parents and the future, just life in general, and she made me more hopeful about my life than anyone I've ever talked to.

We ended up sitting in the cool, barely-there grass underneath lilac trees, talking nonstop until a gust of wind shook the branches, spilling tiny flowers all over us.

I smiled, brushing petals off her head.

She kissed me, and all I knew was the shape of her mouth and the scent of lilacs.

It's not my only memory of purple flowers.

In the windows, I grew tiny violets, just to have something to look at besides the building next to us.

Eventually, she liked them more than I did. There were violets all over our apartment, pressed in books, in vases, drying on the wall.

She didn't know the symbolism behind violets for a while, and laughed when I told her.

One night we were going out, I wove those violets into her hair, and God, I can’t get rid of those photos.

A dress of hers was the most beautiful indigo I’ve ever seen, and she looked like a goddess in it.

I miss getting up for a glass of water and looking at the light filtering through the curtains- curtains we couldn't agree on what color they were. Purple, indigo, black, it didn't matter. I knew there were things to do, and ignored them, slipping back into bed and pressing myself against her back. I felt and heard the grumble she gave me at my cold feet against her legs.

I miss those mornings most of all.

I remember her in the grey shirt that was her favorite, and mine. It was a constant “step off this is my shirt” and “I’m your girlfriend it’s mine bye” between us. I remember her smirking at me while wearing it, I remember her sliding cold hands underneath it, using my waist as a personal heater. I remember her sliding it out of it like a pro at one whispered word.

When we broke up, the clouds were the same shade of grey.

I don’t know if she has that shirt now, or if it’s in some forgotten box on my highest shelf.

That grey was my mood for weeks, months.

That grey was me lying on the kitchen floor, staring at the wall without seeing it, that grey was the color of the text on my phone as I stared at the conversation I couldn’t delete, not knowing what I wanted.

Her nicest hoodie was black. There were mornings when she let me wear it because of the cold, and mornings when I slipped underneath it and we both wore it. It looked stupid, obviously, but it was warm and we didn't care.

One night, there was a power outage. I had been watching TV when it snapped off with that popping sound, and suddenly there was just crushing darkness.

I took a deep breath, shoving myself into the corner of the couch, trying to keep panicky thoughts out of my mind.

And then she was there, phone's dim light in her hand, voice gentle and touch soft, telling me it was okay.

She was good at comforting and calming me down.

I wish I had told her that more.

My life used to be painted in screaming color, and after I had it, nothing has ever looked the same.

\---------  
Ymir scrolls through the lengthy piece on her dash, skimming it until she pauses.

The style of the author is so incredibly familiar, and she doesn’t know why or how, because she’s never read anything like it before.

She goes back up to the top, and concentrates that time.

The red paragraph brings  memories of Historia in her red dress to mind, and she can't help a sad smile.

As she reads on, she taps her foot on the floor, the similarities of the writing and her last relationship making her uncomfortable.

It takes her until the blue centric paragraph to understand.

Either this is an incredible coincidence or this is definitely Historia's writing.

Ymir keeps reading, and she lays her head back on the chair with the bitter urge to cry at the end.

She hasn't admitted it, but, she misses Historia more than she could ever understand.

Pushing the feeling away, she hesitantly goes to the source blog, and knows, just from the floral background, it really is her.

The bio matches up, and- oh, oh wow, so does the selfie tag.

Oh no, she’s even hotter.

She stalks Historia’s blog for longer than she wants to admit, coming across more of her writing (all incredible, and it hurts someplace deep that Ymir hasn’t been around to see it grow) and finding a “I MISS HER SO MUCH” tag full of sad quotes and little rambly text posts that, judging by the replies, only she really understands.

Ouch.

Eventually, Ymir hovers over the Start screen, about to turn her computer off and go to fucking bed, when she does something she knows could be potentially one of the biggest mistakes literally ever.

She sends Historia a message.

She spends another stupid amount of time thinking about what to say, almost chickening out multiple times, until she rereads Historia’s piece.

The part about the grey shirt they both loved so much catches her attention, and-

Where even is it?

Ymir sits back, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember.

It had been really soon after their breakup, and she was getting dressed for the day. It was dark, and she grabbed something from the dresser, putting it on before she realized it was that one shirt and it smelled so painfully like Historia.  

After crying for- too fucking long, she had balled it up and thrown it onto the shelf in the closet Historia could never reach.

Not like it mattered at the time.

She finally types into the ask box, ending up with: “Don’t worry, that shirt is on my highest shelf. Not like you could reach it on yours anyway.”

It’s kind of mean and distant, but it’s her type of humor, and it’s 5am, who even fucking cares at this point.

Ymir goes to bed after that.

\-----

There is no way. None.

Historia stares at the latest ask in her inbox, so suddenly uncertain of herself.

There is no way Ymir saw that post and messaged her.

She checks the notes of it, noting the urls of a few lesbian blogs, and she’s not surprised if Ymir follows one.

She can't believe this is happening.

Ymir sent it an hour after she fell asleep, dammit, she always had bad timing.

And it was kind of, wow, that’s something Historia would pout at her for saying.

She doesn’t know how to reply. Does she want to reply? That’s common courtesy, right?

She finally takes note of the url- seriously, Ymir? Ymirsbian?

Well, she can’t judge her, her photo blog’s url is hipstoria-reiss.

She has to indulge her inner child and close her eyes as she clicks the url of Ymir’s blog.

When she opens them, the sidebar is a stupid selfie of her in a hat that just reads TITS, and- wow, for one thing, she’s so much hotter now, and she is so incredibly unsurprised Ymir owns that hat.

She laughs when she reads her blog title- “i am a useless lesbian” because, wow, that’s so true.

Historia browses the blog for a little while, looking at selfies and stupid text posts, before it occurs to her.

Ymir had almost certainly done the same thing.

Oh no, oh no- she had not prepared for this, she had that ridiculously sad “I MISS HER SO MUCH” tag, fuck, she had not thought about this.

Well, there was nothing she can do now but reply.  

Historia stares at the blank box for what feels like hours before she remembers something.

Ymir had a habit of throwing things into the car’s cupholder but then folding it back up, getting things stuck in the space between the actual cupholders and its backing.

They had been on a group road trip with their friends when Ymir put the motel keys in it and then forgetting about them, folded it back.

Historia had gotten them out with her baby hands, but otherwise, they would have been totally fucked.

Biting her lip, she replies with “I seem to remember my baby hands saving our road trip, you tall asshole.”

She hopes Ymir recalls all the times she had called her that affectionately, instead of taking offense.

With a morning wasted, she goes to get something to eat before really starting her day.

\-----

Ymir stares at her screen.

Of course Historia referenced that one time- well, a bunch of times, but still! It wasn’t as if she had… put her bank cards in it… and multiple pens… and change… and hairties. And Historia had to get all of it out of there.

Well, shit.

She’s right.

She sighs noisily, and can’t help but hear “tall asshole” in Historia’s soft “you’re ridiculous and I love you for it” voice, and knew she meant her to read it like that.

What can she say in return?

Her mouth curls into a smile as she remembers multiple times Historia had gotten sick and needed Ymir to get the soup cans from the highest shelf in the kitchen.

The smile fades as she remembers other nights they had soup, nesting in blankets and pillows on the couch, trying not to spill over-full bowls and-

Ouch, that hurts.

She misses those nights.

She misses so much.

Feeling the bitter tears swell up again, Ymir lays her head down on her desk.

The cold wood does nothing to soothe the sad ache in her chest.

She doesn’t miss nights they were so stressed any conversation became snapping at each other, doesn’t miss tiptoeing around until their moods were better, doesn't miss the last month before they broke up when they couldn't stand each other.

But in their hectic lives, everything changing and moving and the reality of shit, we're adults now, Ymir and Historia were each other's stability, something they could count on at the end of the day. And they loved each other so much.

She misses pointless and playful arguments over what lame TV show they were gonna watch. She misses almost burning the food but eating it anyway, pretending to be snobby food critics over the carbonization at the bottom. She misses nights when she lay awake, her world becoming just the sound of Historia breathing and the feeling of their bodies pressed together.

Fuck, she misses her, she misses her ridiculously flawless face and long hair and blue eyes that carried the weight of so much behind them and still softened when they met her own-

Jesus fucking Christ.

She slams her laptop shut and goes back to bed, pillowcase wet with tears.

Later in the day, she finally replies, pushing away any emotion.

\---

Historia had waits all day for Ymir to answer, and all she gets is  “I had forgotten that. but who still needed help getting things down from the high cupboards? not me (:”.

Dammit, Ymir.

She has to smile.

One time- actually a lot of times, Ymir didn’t even bother with a step stool or getting it herself, just pushed Historia onto her shoulders and let her get whatever she needed.

So she shoots off a quick “you loved every second of it” and leaves to run errands, feeling emptier than she has in a long while.

\--

Ymir reads those six words over and over.

She had.

Of course she had.

It was Historia.

The touch of her fingers to the keyboard feels foreign.

\---

“I always did when it was you.”

Historia sighs, on the verge of tears.

Closing her eyes, she tries to convince herself that tiptoeing around what she really wants to say, what she needs to say is still worth it.

But it isn’t.

Ymir’s always dealt in honestly.

She types slowly, letting her innermost voice guide it, the voice that sounds like her own and so much unlike her own that it is everything she could be and every faded dream of what she could have been at once.

\------

Ymir opens her inbox and knows this is a piece of Historia she willingly gave.

"I stared at the stars that looked like nothing but the constellations on your skin when I let myself realize I was a stupid asshole and I missed you more than I had wanted my useless ideal of freedom. I laid there until the sun rose, and I knew I was wrong."

She lets her words sink in, looking at the freckles on her hands with the incredible knowledge that something so meaningful and infinite as the stars reminded Historia of her.

And Ymir knows she should have reached out so much sooner.

“My Skype’s the same as my url. I miss the sound of your voice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to actual [ymirsbian](http://ymirsbian.tumblr.com/) for letting me use your url, and for those curious, hipstoria-reiss is a url I have saved, I just use it for potential playlist covers.  
> There is room for a sequel here. That might be a thing that happens.


End file.
